


Orphan's Lament

by Taisho



Series: One-shots & Song Fics [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Destruction, Gen, Hogwarts, Horcrux Creation, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Murder, Orphanage, Orphans, Post-Hogwarts, Purgatory, Self-Reflection, Songfic, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), Wraith, delusions of grandeur, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taisho/pseuds/Taisho
Summary: I’m an orphan; I’m alone.Pity I didn’t die as a baby.A short songfic about Tom Riddle's descent into the darkest kinds of magic, from his perspective, and how he faced the consequences of defiling his soul.





	Orphan's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based around the translated lyrics of the Tuvan throat-singing group Huun Huur Tu. I thought the lyrics were very symbolic and could be related to Harry Potter rather easily.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7b1egQpIjLs - if anyone is curious.
> 
> I do not claim to own, and do not seek profit from this fanfiction work of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series or from Huun Huur Tu's musical creations.
> 
> Currently unbeta'd so apologies for any errors or poor grammar - I just got too eager to post this.

 

**_I’m an orphan; I’m alone._ **

**_Pity I didn’t die as a baby._ **

 

For Tom, the first Horcrux was a stroke of luck – paired with misfortune.

Although his intent to kill was always there, lurking under the surface, peering into Myrtle Warren’s now vacant, bulbous eyes was an odd sensation to say the least. Tom, still pained at the thought of having to return _there_ earlier than he was legally required to, thought that Warren should consider herself lucky, really. The unwitting girl now held more remarkability than she ever would have, were she not in the wrong place at the right time.

To have unknowingly become the catalyst for Tom’s own, rightful ascension was surely an honour of the highest degree, even for a Mudblood. Having acquired his deserved status as Slytherin’s true heir, the name Tom had lost all symbolism for him, the diary now the only real reminder for him. It was lucky, really, that he happened to have the tattered item on hand, for now, it was his precious vessel, housing part of his very own soul.

No, the name Tom Riddle would do no longer, now that he had taken his first step to elude death. He was surely a Lord, now, a title much coveted for him once he had learnt of his less than ideal station. Lord Voldemort would erase that history and change the future, and his Knights would revere him above all others.  

 

**_If I had died as a baby, I would never have suffered._ **

* * *

 

 

**_I am the loneliest._ **

**_Pity I didn’t die in my cradle._ **

 

It truly was a pity, that he was correct in his assumptions about the futility of family. That the Gaunts had degraded themselves into living in a _hovel_ , barely understanding the English language and lacking any concept of how clean, proper procreation should take place was despicable. Why were they, the direct line from Salazar Slytherin himself reduced to living in the bowels of the town, when his disgusting pig father Tom Riddle, Sr. et al were able to reside, carefree at the top? Useless, being bested by filthy Muggles as such, comforting themselves with their putrid squalor.

Lord Voldemort regarded Morfin Gaunt’s bound body with detachment, having already vented his rage appropriately. Who said he could not enjoy a familial heirloom? Taking a trinket such as the Lordship ring still attached to Morfin’s stiff finger was only fitting, now that the man was certain to rot in Azkaban. Morfin Gaunt _had_ , after-all, gone on a rampage up the hill, his motive clear – disgust at the utter disrespect of the smarmy Muggle, Tom Riddle Sr, holding a higher social ranking than Morfin or his departed father, tensions which had surely been boiling for years.

And well, if Voldemort found a greater purpose for the ring, some time later, then he hoped Morfin would feel as jubilant as he did, for yet again garnering higher accolades for the Slytherin line. Such a shame that Azkaban did not allow visitors for their most dangerous prisoners.

**_If I had died in my cradle, I wouldn’t have suffered._ **

* * *

 

 

**_Pity the baby birds,_ **

**_Left without a nest._ **

 

Voldemort was disarmed for the influx of pure _need_ that infiltrated his being after the second Horcrux. He was, distantly, aware of his mounting, irrational paranoia that two were not enough to truly hold death at bay. On the days which he maintained balance, he knew that nobody would even think to assume that he had created more than one, if they ever lived to find out – and he was certain that they would not. Still, even with these fluxes in his personality, he was on par to achieve the perfect N.E.W.T scores, as divined. A good thing too, since he truly could not bring himself to debase himself outside of coy boasting and flirtation as Hepzibah Smith’s humongous breasts were vulgarly being shaken in his face as he charmed the woman. Whilst he held no pleasure of the flesh as such, he understood the power of sexual attraction. The lady was certainly a sexual deviant, given the way she was leering towards him, and for her obscenities, in no way worthy to be in his presence. Still, she held truly priceless artefacts which were rightfully his, and she was thoroughly beguiled under his careful pretence.

And if, the time it took to woo said heirlooms from Hepzibah was equal in measure to that of brewing a fresh batch of death, well…  

Slytherin’s locket was most treasured by him, and he wasted no time in repaying his utmost respect to his forefather. It too, served as a fitting receptacle for part of his soul.

Voldemort had only just expected the phantasmagorical pull he felt to split again, mere weeks after the locket, his soul seeking homage in Hufflepuff’s cup. Still, he was not one to deny his instincts, already leaning towards a higher number as being more magically significant, should fate ever attempt to take his life. He would be laughing.

The next swirling tempest of unadulterated need for more happened in the last week of school. He truly was lucky – yet so was Hogwarts, being left with such a priceless reminder that someone so magnificent had graced its halls. Fitting, again, that it be held in long lost, sought after relic. He graduated Hogwarts gleeful at having placed a tender touch into each house, honouring the founders with the gift of himself. Gratified in leaving such a gift under the demented man’s own, gnarly, nose.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Pity a baby,_ **

**_Left without a mother._ **

 

Even though he had taken all the necessary precautions, he was not prepared for that fateful night. To have been reduced to a mere wraith, a shade of weaning power, had been a horrifying realisation. By an infant, nonetheless – accursed blood magic at play, Lily Potter so foolish to think herself above him. She had met her end, and he had relished in it. The child had eyes more alert than he had expected, and he felt a gathering static as he had aimed his wand, a feeling oddly alike to the consuming need to create he had acquired in his rise to power. Still, the child was of little consequence – for now. It would be unbecoming for Voldemort to awaken his vessels at such a time, given he had already been ludicrous in his hunt for the infernal spawn. No, better he bides his time and seek further knowledge, discover more ways to anchor himself to this realm.

* * *

 

 

**_One’s fate,_ **

**_One cannot change it._ **

 

Nagini came to him like a prophet seeking his God; and who was Voldemort to deny his subject? His serpentine companion helped him yet again breach the limits of magic – his own beautiful, _living_ Horcrux; one which could lash out and kill without any necessary spell work like he used to protect his other vessels. Their souls swirled together in an otherworldly fashion, and if his features became more snake like, he did not miss his human attributes as much as he once might have, no longer having the need or desire for social niceties. No need for such a thing when you were destined to hold dominion over all.

* * *

 

 

**_My departed mother,_ **

**_Nothing can bring her back._ **

 

All at once, Voldemort knew everything, and everything Voldemort knew was replaced with nothing. He was Tom Riddle again; he knew that much, surrounded by the bleak white as he was, now, eternally. He had witnessed the destruction of himself again and again and again. He had been enveloped in a sea of endless green, fierce in their intensity, smug in their superiority. Feeling each stab of a fang, the flames of fire lapping around him, a sword slicing clean through – his fragmented soul dissipating with each lance. He felt his own magic being turned upon himself. He was the core to his wand which fractured as Harry Potter bested him, reduced him to a crumpled mess on the floor, deceased, deceased, deceased. Now, it was worse than his time spent as a wandering wraith. He was less than an infant, even, reduced to flittering in and out of _being_. Tom Riddle witnessed his tarnished soul, a blackened blot in the white atmosphere, all shrivelled and curdled and disgusting, and he witnessed the crimes he had committed against life itself repeatedly, forced to face his grievous errors.

He was not the one laughing, in the end.

No, Death’s own chilling laughter surrounded him, bone-rattling, wheezing, chortling, cackling. Often, other voices joined Death's - ones that Tom Riddle did not recognise, for he had only ever heard them scream and plead for salvation. And they laughed, mocking him, until time was no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
